


Holystone

by juniper__tree



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Eating, Elves, F/M, Pining, Romance, Sailing, the sea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 19:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19818961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juniper__tree/pseuds/juniper__tree
Summary: Bryn Lavellan left the clan as a restless youth. After many years exploring Thedas as a sailor, he longed for home and returned, only to be asked to venture out once again to spy upon the Conclave.As Inquisitor, his identity and power plague him. He's a man of simple tastes and wants for little, though there is one woman who has captured him entirely.





	1. Prayer

In the days after the Conclave, everyone looked to their gods. Bryn witnessed many prayers. They were sighed, screamed, choked through blood. Penitents on hands and knees in the snow begged for mercy before the end of the world. Survivors murmured hymns, songs of resilience and blessings, soft under their breath. 

It was not until he saw her pray that their meaning struck him. 

He carelessly pushed through a door into a dark room, and stopped when he found it was not empty. 

Cassandra Pentaghast knelt upon the cold flagstones. Her hands were tight fists at her knees. Her eyes were shut against the mass of candles on the altar before her. The candles flickered, and the light trembled over the fresh cuts on her cheek, across her wet upper lip. 

Bryn leaned into a cobwebbed corner. If she knew he was there, she did not show it. 

She spoke as though she were gasping for air. “Blessed Andraste. Help me to know the truth of your words.” She sniffed, and sighed. “Remember the fire.” Her voice was rote, a recitation. 

When her eyes opened, her gaze upon the candle flames was at once fierce and fragile. The pain in her voice throbbed into him, aching as she spoke the Chant. 

_Remember the fire. You must pass_   
_Through it alone to be forged anew._  
_Look upon the Light so you_  
_May lead others here through the darkness,_  
_Blade of the Faith._

His breath shallow, he tried to be silent, listening as her prayer faded to a whisper. 

When had he last uttered anything like a prayer? As he made his goodbyes to Clan Lavellan so many years ago, he paused by the herded halla, resting in a field. One caught his eye, and stood, and walked to him, bending to offer her neck for a caress. He stroked the warm white fur and felt her breath upon his skin. Something deep within him shuddered. _Ghilan'nain, guide me_ , he thought. _Guide me on a path I do not yet know._

But he was a child then. After that, it had been years. A few offhand thoughts— _Sylaise, hold these ropes to the mast._ Superstitions. A sailor’s faith.

If a ship was in danger, a storm or a skirmish or the stars seemed to fade from the sky, sailors did pray. They were not a pious lot, as a rule, but faced with death they were as frightened as any in Haven had been beneath the Breach. Between the heavy blows of waves crashing onto the deck, or as a ship drifted aimlessly on still waters, a sailor might kneel upon the rough wood and beg for his life, for a strong wind. 

Bryn did not join them. He always hoped the prayers of others would see him through, that any blessing they received might reach him, too, just being nearby. In a way he still held that hope. He could not ask for himself. 

This prayer was different. Cassandra did not pray for herself to be saved, or for others to be blessed. She prayed for the strength to go on. She prayed for the ability to do what had already been asked of her. She, iron-willed, a force like he had never seen, prayed for help. 

“Did you need something?” Her voice, now sharp and matter of fact, broke through the cloud of his thoughts. She had turned toward him, still kneeling, and looked up, expectant, but not displeased. 

“No, I…” Bryn stammered and pushed from away from the wall. “My apologies,” he said softly, “I did not mean to interrupt your…”

She smiled, and it was a gift. “No apology is necessary. I make no secret of my faith.” 

The choked grief in her voice, the tears, all gone. He was glad of it. Perhaps she had already received the strength she requested. He held out a hand to her. 

Cassandra, for only a moment, hesitated. Then she took his hand, the worn leather of her glove soft and cool against his palm. He pulled her up, close to where he stood.

It was like it had been in that cell. Shackled on the ground, he had stared up at his captor in confusion, her beautiful face enraged. When she dragged him to his feet, she seemed indignant that she had to look up to meet his eyes. 

Now their eyes met again in the dim candlelight, no anger or fear between them. Her hand still rested in his own. Even in the dark he could see her flush, just a little. 

Cassandra pulled her hand away and moved to leave, when she paused at the door. She studied him a moment, and he felt himself growing warm under her scrutiny. _Blushing_ , he thought. _An old sea rat like you blushing. Well, you aren’t dead yet, are you?_

“I can only imagine,” she began slowly, “that your presence might aid my prayers.” 

The blush faded. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” she said, gently, as though she were speaking to a favored but naive child, “you are Andraste’s chosen.” 

Yes. That. He knew. He could no longer meet her eyes, ashamed suddenly. Ashamed of what, he was not sure. 

But he felt her eyes upon him, searching his face for what he himself did not know. He forced himself to look there. “I am sorry,” she said, though he was not offended. He was intimidated. It was not a feeling he was used to. “Does that frighten you?”

If he could be as honest as her eyes were in this moment… If he could be as strong as she was, strong enough to admit his weakness. To take her as a guide. “Yes,” he replied, and his voice felt faded. “A little.”

She nodded, a soft smile on her lips. 


	2. Confer

Fresh snow from the night before had buried all the signs of work in Haven. It hid the muddy tracks of wagons bearing supplies, the ash and clinker from the smith fires. Soft piles topped every surface, every roof, and the village looked like a poorly done winter landscape, where the artist hid her technical sins in snowdrifts. But even early in the morning, work had begun again, and the snow would not be white for long. 

Bryn had not been tasked with anything yet. It was good to have some time to himself, however early or sleepy. He ventured out of his cabin, into the cold. The freezing air was still, a small mercy. He had dressed in rough layers, covered them with a thick coat, then wrapped a knotty wool blanket—a favorite of his, traded to him by a pirate for a rare bottle of deathroot liquor—around his shoulders and neck. The blues and purples of the yarn had only faded a little over the years. He wrapped his hands around a mug of spiced tea from his dwindling stash, and let the steam warm his face. 

He had been too long in the warm islands of the north. The cold was getting to him. And the older he got, the worse it felt. 

Trudging through the lightly packed snow, he wandered along the path that led to the village gate. He pushed open the heavy doors.

Here the operations took shape. Commander Cullen barked orders at his men and women, while a more junior soldier led them through their drills. The dull thwack of wood swords against practice shields made an ugly drumbeat around them. It was joined by the clanging hammers of the smith, the sizzle of quenching metal. Runners padded over the snow, quick and quiet as hares among the noise of the Inquisition at work. 

And to the side of the gate, outside his tent, stood the Iron Bull. He watched and listened. His sharp eye took in everything, filing it away for his reports, no doubt. But he was a keen observer by nature, Bryn was sure, as well as training. Bryn had known many Qunari, in Rivain and Par Vollen—fellow sailors, friends, lovers. They didn’t last long among the bas if they were not measured, and careful, for their own sake. The chaos of the world ate at their patience. Bull seemed as though he could thrive anywhere. 

Bryn took a spot next to Bull, who did not react, and sipped his tea. “Morning, Bull.”

Bull cut a quick glance toward him. “Nice scarf. Cold?”

“Yep.” He shivered even in his thick clothes. “You?” 

“Nope.” That should have been obvious, as Bull stood in the chilled air in a thin pair of pants, light boots, and nothing more.

“Ever get cold?” Bryn asked.

“Nope.” 

That was a stupid question. Perhaps it was too early for conversation. But Bryn was awake, and so was Bull, and they were both here. 

“I remember when I was in Par Vollen,” Bryn said, “I’d have given anything for weather like this.” The humidity made everything sticky, the fruit rotted in the trees. As soon as you drank anything you’d sweat it out. “Of course, now I’d enjoy that kind of warmth.” 

Bull half-turned to him, but kept his eye on the surroundings. “Been to Par Vollen, have you? When was that?” His voice was affably curious. 

He begn to answer freely, to tell some tales of warm island sailing, anything to distract from the cold and wake himself up. But he stopped himself. Something wasn’t right about Bull’s question. “Surely,” he said, “you know I’ve been to Par Vollen. And when. Right?”

“Yeah,” Bull said, laughing. “But I thought it would be polite to ask anyway.” He tugged at the high waist of his pants as his line of sight moved toward horses being corraled into their pen. “Some people don’t like it when you know too much about them. Gets under their skin.”

Bryn shrugged. “My skin’s pretty thick. Hard to get under.”

“That’s good.” Bull shuffled his feet and shifted the thick leather armor at his shoulder. “Been to Seheron, too.” He turned to look at Bryn fully. “Right?”

“Just the coast,” he answered, aware that Bull likely knew everything he was about to say. “Picked up a shipment from a Tevinter spice plantation.” He sniffed his mug of tea. It was stale compared to the freshly picked spices in the islands, to the dried cords of badiam and elakkai that hung in every tea shop. “Best run we ever did, because the ship smelled nice. For once.”

“Didn’t even step foot on the island?” Bull asked.

He had not even wanted to. He remembered the elven slaves who brought down the bundles of cinnamon, the barrels of nutmeg. How worn they looked. How they had stared at him on the ship deck, free and happy. How guilty he felt. “Nope.”

Bull grunted. “Just as well. It’s a dangerous place.”

Around them, the soldiers screamed in mock rage as they battled each other, boulders were rolled toward the trebuchets, and the smith pounded at steel which would become a sword. All this noise in preparation for war. “Where isn’t dangerous?” Bryn asked.

“A few pockets here and there.” Bull scratched at his ear. “Place south of Kassel in the Anderfels that’s nice and quiet. Been there a few times. A little blighted but it’s kinda pretty,” he said. 

“On the river? Think I know the place.” That little village in the valley, with the good sour ale and the sharp, briny pickles. It was as far into the Anderfels as he had gone, and even there the darkspawn were still a threat. He wondered at Bull’s definition of nice and quiet.

Bull nodded, but said nothing. Bryn stayed quiet, too, and drank his tea. It was growing cold. 

“You’re right, though,” Bull said finally. “Things are bad all over. Especially now.” He huffed, a frustrated sigh. “Guess it’s up to us to fix it.” Bryn watched him as he began to crack his thick knuckles. “You’ve got a good team here.” Crack, crack. “They’re willing to fight. Treat them right and they’ll keep fighting for you.” 

Bryn hesitated to answer, not wanting to argue or agree. This was not his team. And they were not fighting for him. They were all fighting together, for survival.

He had never been a leader. Never a captain, or a boss. He was first mate material. Give him an order and he’d see it done, see that others did their part. Him giving orders? Anything he could order someone else to do, he’d rather do himself. He didn’t mind getting dirty, or getting hurt. He wasn’t going to sit by and let anybody die for him.

“That’s advice for Cullen, I think,” he said. “Or Leliana. I just do what they ask.”

Bull looked toward the mountains in the distance, a faint smile on his face. “Keep telling yourself that. Meantime, people are lining up to join your army. Not Cullen’s.”

He turned to face Bryn. “Listen, I don’t pretend to understand this… Herald of Andraste shit. I don’t even want to.” The look on his face made that clear. “But I do know how to get people to fight for you. Doesn’t matter whether they’re soldiers or mercenaries.” Bull scanned the line of troops by the tents, their breath visible as they went through their exercises. “It isn’t money, or glory. Those are nice. What you need is respect.” 

A soldier. That was something he never wanted to be. Too close to the hunting bands at home, so careful and serious. No freedom. He admired them, but it was not who he was, or had ever been. “I’ve got nothing but respect for them,” he argued. 

“Yeah, you respect them.” Bull shook his head. “And they fear you as much as they need you. That’s not respect.” He folded his arms, his jaw set tight. “You want to win this thing? You’re in charge. So act like it.” He shifted to gaze again toward the distant hills. “Do them the favor of letting them know you’re worth it,” he said. “Even when you don’t think so.”

Bryn did not have an answer. His mind fought what Bull said. It clenched around an old idea of himself, who had been for decades. It was sunny and warm and on a ship somewhere in Rialto Bay. Here, he was cold, and tired, and wrapped in an old blanket. He held onto his tea and looked out into the same distance. “That’s good advice,” he said.

Bull nodded. “Yep.”


	3. Explore

In Crestwood, the lake sloshed into the muck and swamped the spindleweed. Dories bobbed, wrecked and water-logged, at the shore. And at the center the rift threw its green mist against the moon. 

Bryn slipped on a broken pier where the churning lake overtook the planks. Lightning flashed the dark sky purple as he clung to a splintered post. His fingers sank deep into the wood, and his legs plunged into the water, strangely warm. The waves lapped at his stomach.

Cassandra pulled him up, her hands hooked tight under his arms. Rain had soaked her. Her wet eyelashes flashed, an echo of the moonlight. 

When the rift was closed, the storm passed. From a parapet at Caer Bronach, Bryn’s eyes followed a winding mountain path dotted with druffalo and dandelions. In the distance, a dragon spiraled across the sky. 

—

In Emprise du Lion, ice hung in the air, upon the trees, dripped from the bridges. The frozen stillness slowed breath and time. White, everywhere, so white and fixed it made Bryn tired.

Where there was not white, there was red: crimson canvas tents along the fortress walls, flaming jewels of jagged red lyrium, blood spilled upon the snow. 

Bryn smashed the locks of the cages at the quarry when he could not pick them. He would have smashed the bars, or asked Vivienne to melt them. Instead she made bonfires of the empty crates and broken walkways. The freed captives gathered around them until they were warm enough to walk.

Once the great dragon across the bridge was defeated, Bryn stripped, and sank into the steaming springs. His companions, a hardy but prudish lot, did not join him there. But he spied Cassandra kneel at the bank, remove one leather glove, and drift her hand across the warm water’s surface.

—

In the Exalted Plains, in Dirthavaren, the air was choked with smoke and dust. Trees burned, the earth smoldered, black. Everything felt dead, or haunted, the ash of war smothering the ground. 

Bryn did not like it there.

He couldn’t stand the Chevaliers who would strut atop their stolen fortresses like garish feathered cocks, and crow for their cause.

Even less did he like burning pits of bodies and having to pretend they were not once men like himself.

He disliked the Dalish there, whose pigheaded Keeper should have absorbed them into another clan years ago. They would die there, die as a clan or die altogether, caught between Orlesian armies.

What he liked was Ghilan'nain’s Grove. The still brown water, dotted with lily pads and mossy rocks. The towers of weathered stone which circled and protected. The fog which slunk around those towers and beneath felled trees. The halla statues from another time, proud and tall.

Bryn liked night at camp, when the world was dark, and though the smoke of death faintly lingered, he could not see its charred remains. He sat by a new fire, warm and giving. He told Cassandra the tale of Ghilan'nain, and of Andruil, and he liked how she listened, how she sighed and smiled.


	4. Ponder

The first sword Bryn held was not really a sword. 

It was a chipped, wooden scimitar, a toy that had wound its way to his tribe in a merchants’ trade. He found it buried in a musty box of supplies—junk the traders could get no coin for. When he reached in, he touched soft wood, and pulled it out by the hilt, worn smooth with age and love. It was someone else’s favorite toy once. 

He was still young enough for toys, then. He was still too young to take up a bow and become a hunter, though he didn’t want that. Arrows kept you quiet, kept you far away. 

With the scimitar, he barreled toward a tree, or a friend, and attacked—gently. Bryn smelled the sap seep from the broken bark, saw his friend’s eyes widen with surprise, then narrow as they planned their counterattack. Arrows meant hiding, and waiting. A sword meant a fight. 

Sometimes wolves came out of the woods. Sometimes worse things did. You had to stay sharp.

Another trader left behind a battered claymore. The steel was no longer straight. The edge was so dull it wouldn’t cut an apple. But as soon as his hand gripped the ragged leather of the hilt, and his young arm lifted the heavy steel, he knew. He swung it once, and his body spun with the drag of its weight. 

He stuck an old tent post deep in the ground and hacked at it, spinning and striking until he could direct that weight to hit the wood. Until the muscles in his arms grew lean and strong. Until the tent post split under the force of his blows.

He broke many tent posts over the years, until he left for the sea, and took the old claymore with him. 

Despite the yarns he might’ve spun, Bryn did not have much cause for swordfighting as a sailor. He worked trade ships for couriers and merchants, trafficking food and spices, destined for polished marble tables he would never see. 

There were times, though, when the boxes held other luxuries, and treasures that were tempting. The ship, sometimes, had rats—a manifest leaked to a dockside thug. Or a lone ship was simply a fetching target. A pirate doesn’t know what’s in a chest until she opens it. 

And a pirate always brings her sword. You had to stay sharp.

He picked up new swords in his travels: thin one-handed blades that could pick apart chainmail; stout hackers that less cut than bashed; even a real scimitar, its fine steel polished and curved.

He gave the old claymore to a ship’s boy he met on a fishing run in a dark northern ocean, and taught him to use it. The boy wanted to fight, like Bryn had once, and he was itching for an attack, so unlikely on this lonely water. 

One day the boy would learn it wasn’t how much you fight, but who, and why. A fight that wasn’t life or death was a waste. Better to sit together over some aged wine, a fresh catch, and talk like women and men. It would take the boy a long time to learn that, if ever. 

But some fights truly were life or death. 

After the explosion, when the first demons attacked them on that frozen pond, Cassandra had her sword at the ready. It was a gleaming blade she held with power and grace. 

But Bryn had no time to watch her. One of the demons skittered across the ice toward him, hissing, its black claws hooked and sharp. Bryn was defenseless, and scanned the nearby snowbank for a fallen branch he could swing. 

Something shimmered in his periphery. Atop a pile of rags, and one leather shoe, lay a sword. He slid and stumbled to reach it, and took it by the freezing hilt. It was an old claymore, bigger and sharper than his had been, more finely made, but it felt familiar. It felt good. 

He dragged the tip across the ice and the blade sang.


	5. Plot

The kitchen had too little to choose from that day. There were heavy roasts lining the counters, waiting to be sliced, fresh pies cooling in the windows, and a melange of leftovers—all hearty and wholesome, and utterly bland. Fereldan cuisine lived up to its reputation. Bryn hoped it would not be too offensive to the good men and women of the Inquisition kitchens if he had Josephine acquire spices and sauces from the islands that he missed. 

Surely everyone would enjoy them, eventually. Once their tongues and bellies became accustomed to the heat. But would the cooks know how to use them? How to steam the anguis peppers so they plumped, and the fiery, orange oil beaded softly through the skin? How to crush just the right amount of bichu seeds into a thin paste, and blend that into the thick, red syrup of a crushed visnia? 

Bryn could show them himself, if it came to it. It had been decades, truly, since he was a ship’s cook, but he knew what he liked. And if he were the only one to enjoy it, perhaps that would not be the worst outcome.

Still, Bryn had a large appetite, and what was available would do. Sera was shadowing him that day, though there was no official reason—he simply enjoyed her company. In some ways, in _good_ ways, she reminded him of himself, at her age. Reckless and driven, angry and hopeful. And she was just as hungry as he was—for many things, but mainly food. They had piled their plates high and wobbling with all that would fit, and walked through Skyhold together, talking and laughing, mouths full. 

They had made their way to the Undercroft to see Dagna, at her request. Dagna’s easy smile and sweet voice hid the mind and skills of a mad genius. The thought of what she might be capable of was terrifying. It was only a matter of harnessing that terror into something that would give them an advantage. 

“The Anchor,” she said, her eyes gleaming. She followed Bryn’s hand as it lifted an assortment of cold pastry and grilled vegetables from his plate to his mouth. 

“What about it?” He mumbled through a mouthful of food. 

“There must be a way to harness all that power.” Dagna smiled wide, and it was not comforting. "I mean, we don’t even know the source. Or the strength! You could be operating at _ten percent_ of the Anchor’s full capacity.“ 

"Doesn’t feel like it.” The constant ache in his forearm, and the blinding flashes of pain which raged through his body when he closed a Rift—these suggested to Bryn that the Anchor was at maximum levels. If it weren’t, he’d rather not know.

“Imagine the kind of weapon we could create with that energy. Or if it could be focused somehow. A sword, maybe?” Dagna’s focus began to drift as she looked toward the sky outside the forge, and spoke softly, almost to herself. "A directly charged enchantment. But he’s not left-handed… If it could travel through the arteries?…“

"It’s already a weapon, though?” Sera asked. She still grazed from her plate, but she was seated on the forge’s cold floor, in front of a locked chest. She was attempting to pick the heavy iron lock with a greasy chicken bone. Dagna did not seem to care, if she noticed.

Bryn nodded. "What she said.“

Dagna tilted her head, her rounded nose wrinkling. "Not exactly. As I’ve said, it’s more like a key. Useful in its current application, of course. But the possibilities are… well, totally unknown!” she said joyfully. "Which is the best part!“ 

"Got it!” Sera called from the floor, holding up the rusty, opened lock. "Haven’t done that in ages.“ 

Bryn appreciated her ingenuity, but at that moment he was preoccupied by Dagna’s growing interest in his hand. "I don’t want to be a weapon. Not literally.” 

“Oh, of course not,” Dagna said, raising her gloved hands. "We need something a little less destructible than your body. You’re just bones and soft parts.“ 

He didn’t like thinking of that. No one enjoys ruminating on how fragile and short-lived they really are. So instead, he held his dwindling plate close to his chest, and scooped up the last of the meat pie, which had grown cold in the forge. 

On the floor, Sera rummaged through the unlocked chest, picking up a ceramic jar or glass tube, looking it over for a moment, then tossing it to the side.

"You know, most of the things in that chest are explosive,” Dagna said, her voice fluttering nervously. "Which is, you know, why it was locked.“ 

Sera’s shoulders heaved in a put-upon sigh, and she stood up, going back to her plate. She dug out a piece of smoked fish and took a bite. "Simple,” she said. "That’s the best, right? When I was a kid, worst thing was an old fish head.“ She shook the rest of the fish at Dagna for emphasis. "Let her rot in the alley, thwack her at some knob, he stinks for days.” She laughed and stuffed the rest of the fish in her mouth. 

Bryn smiled. "We may want something more fatal than fish heads.“ 

Then Sera gasped. "A bomb!” She shook Dagna by the shoulder. "Make a fish bomb. Blows everyone up,“ she said, ” _and_ stinks.“ She folded her arms and gave a self-satisfied smile.

"Well,” Dagna said, “that’s certainly not a complicated idea. Original, perhaps, but, mechanically it’s…” She looked as dissatisfied with the idea as Sera was pleased.

“Not hard for you. You can figure anything out.” Sera winked at Dagna, and smiled. 

A fiery blush bloomed in Dagna’s cheeks and she avoided everyone’s eyes. Bryn stifled a grin, and wondered if these two would be more trouble together than they were apart.

Dagna coughed. "I, uh, suppose we could infuse a a chemical explosive with… _fish rot._ I’ll check with the kitchens.“

"They _are_ demons, generally,” Bryn said. "I don’t think they smell wonderful to begin with. Do we think they care about smelling like fish?“ 

"Nobody wants that,” Sera insisted. "Don’t care what you are.“ 

He supposed it was worth a try. 

Later, after the trial, it was swiftly banned. 

Dagna had done her job, and more. The explosion was wide and strong, and the residue was inescapable. Those closest to its blast radius, including Bryn, could smell it in their hair and clothes for weeks. He had been the one to ban it, and even Sera agreed it was not worth stinking oneself to ensure the stink of another. 


	6. Procrastinate

No one wanted to move ahead that night. The rain poured heavy, inescapable, and soaked them to the bone. 

Bryn gave the forward scouts a reprieve from going on, the soldiers from fighting a path clear for the rest of them, and bid them all stay at the campsite. It was large and covered, for once, and dry enough for a few fires.

Bryn knew hardly any of them by name. Each time one of them thanked him and shook his hand, or bowed to him, he walked away red-faced, though he strove not to let anyone see. He was no better than any of them. To tell the truth, he was a good deal worse. They were brave and dedicated, fighting for something they believed in. For someone. Bryn was playing a role, and as each day passed he grew more unsure of his ability to convince anyone of it, much less himself. 

He yearned to be a hand on deck again, a capable but untalented man, who did only what he was asked. Just another nameless, faceless sailor doing his job. 

The way he thought to salve the guilt which ate at him was the only way he knew how. By sharing drinks and stories with them, learning their names by heart, letting them know he was not a king or an icon, asking they perform to his whims. By showing him that he would do everything he could to keep them safe. 

A group of soldiers huddled around an open fire pit. They warmed their weathered hands and sank low to ease their tired feet close to the flames. They began to stir, to demur and quiet their talk, when Bryn looked for a place to sit among them. But he brought a few bottles of Chasind mead that found their way into a supply chest, and some parcels of sausage and bread from his own stash. It was fresher than any rations they had, and a good sight more filling. 

Soon, they were sated and at ease, and the talk flowed naturally. That was a comfort to Bryn. He needed it.

Most of their talk was of war. That was hardly surprising to Bryn, but the endless grind of battle had consumed them in a way he had not realized. There were few bawdy tales or salacious bits of hearsay, like he might share with Blackwall or Vivienne. There were far too many short, brutal remembrances, and stormy arguments. 

“Twelve of those Templar defects holed up in a cave off one of our routes,” Aubrey, a burly, dark-eyed man with a harsh, hoarse voice told Bryn. "Not the red ones, just the arsehole ones. A month on now, maybe two. What month is it?“ he asked. 

"Drakonis,” Bryn answered. 

Aubrey shook his head and grunted. "Two, then. Well, they came at us straight off. No wait and see. Sure they wanted whatever we had. Starving.“ He stabbed a stick into the dirt beside him. "Desperate, they were. It weren’t no kind of battle. Only felt sorry for them,” he mumbled, looking into the fire. 

“That is not how it happened.” Mariot sat across the fire from Bryn and Aubrey, her ice blue eyes lit brightly by the flame. She had thick blonde curls and a clipped Orlesian accent. "You always apologize for those bastards.“

"I don’t,” Aubrey barked. "I know what I saw.“

"They were crazed,” Mariot said to Bryn. "Grey-faced, lashing out every which way. They strung up a mage in front of their tent. Like a warning.“ She spat onto the ground, as though merely telling the story sickened her. “They are vile. Cardona’s arm was cut straight through, and they hit Leitner in the temple, so hard. Her ears still ring.” Mariot glared at Aubrey. "They deserve everything they get.“ 

"You’re both wrong.” A soft voice spoke up from the corner. It was Galla, a young Antivan who had been quiet, and watched Bryn and the others with what looked like calm detachment. "There _was_ a dead mage there. One of those Venatori. He’d been killed by a rebel mage, no doubt about that because he’d been singed. But he wasn’t strung up. He was lying face down in the mud.“ Galla took a long drink from the mead bottle in his hand. 

"Venatori there,” he said, “probably means they’re too far gone already on red lyrium. Shameful. It turns them into monsters. They _don’t_ deserve that,” he said with a pointed look at Mariot, “although they are bastards. No one deserves that. Good thing we killed them before they lost whatever minds they had left.”

Then he put down the bottle and closed his eyes. He’d said his piece and was finished. 

Others chimed in to argue, and Bryn sat back, listening to the din rising and the soldiers cursing. He wondered how everything had gone so wrong here. He wondered what people would remember of this time, of the Inquisition. If anything like the truth could be rooted out from among the chaos. 

Here is what people will remember:

That war had its way with Thedas again, and everyone suffered.  
That each man and woman and monster believed they were righteous.  
That there were hardly any truths to be found.  
That they fought, and some of them lived to tell their story.


	7. Rain-drenched

The Inquisition had an eye, it seemed, in every location in Thedas. There were spies in Montfort and soldiers on the Minanter, and even scouts among the Malcellin Geysers, where there was hardly a soul to be watched. There were agents in all corners of the map, and upon the sea. 

Bryn found some of his old friends who still sailed a great fit for the job, where their eyes and ears could be useful. Their ears had picked up plenty. Some words were worthless, and some only worthless to the fool who uttered them where others could hear. 

And from them came a warning, that there were troubles. That there were agents at hand who could not be trusted. 

“That pirate. Varric, honestly.” Cassandra paced around a low wooden table in the smithy, her leather armor creaking as she moved, until she stopped in front of Varric. He sat in a chair, looking tired of the argument before it had begun.

She glared down at him, and Bryn could feel her ire. It flowed from her in waves, like water against a hull—one moment deceptively calm, the next battering and hard. He had a fleeting hope to never be the target of that ire. He had a simultaneous, foolish hope that he might be, one day. He wanted her anger, if it meant knowing, _feeling_ , her passion.

“ _That pirate_ has what we need,” Varric insisted to Bryn. He placed his thick hands flat against the table and leaned forward. "Isabela is ruthless, and she can talk her way into anything. Trust me,“ he said, with an air of experience that suggested he might have been her victim once, too. 

Cassandra looked at Bryn, her hazel eyes narrowed and glittering. But it was not the time to enjoy looking at her in return, and memorizing each curve and angle of her face. Other memories took precedence, and they were hard, and ugly. 

"Not just a pirate,” he said. "A slaver.“

Varric turned to him then, his brow wrinkled, his eyes questioning. 

Bryn sighed. Varric had not known. "The Siren’s Call,” he said, keeping his voice even. "A slave ship, among other things.“ 

"Can’t be.” Varric shook his head, his mouth a tight line. "That’s not the Isabela I know.“

It was the only one Bryn knew of. 

The rain had soaked them as they sat, backs to a mast, hands and ankles bound with heavy, wet rope. He and his shipmates watched helplessly, with water in their eyes, while the pirates turned over every crate, and cracked open every barrel. The one they called Isabela, she ignored the rain. She pointed her dagger toward the stockpiles and smiled. 

In a way, it must have been exhilarating, he imagined—taking what was not yours, making others submit to you. Some pirates were workmen, and almost apologetic as they held you at knifepoint and cannon blast, and stole your livelihood. Some were more dramatic, and played up their parts to spread their reputation. If that meant killing men, or torturing them, or simply humiliating them before their fellows, they would do it. 

Bryn hated both kinds. It was not the loss of goods that bothered Bryn, though it did make future contracts less valuable. That was not his business, even if it impacted his coins at the end of a run. There were always more contracts. What stung was the embarrassment, for him, and for the rest of the crew. They could have outrun these pirates—this vessel was fast and sharp, and the crew was much the same. But they had been caught off guard, and fooled. 

They would not be fooled again. Through the driving rain, Bryn memorized every line of that ship, each curve in her sheer, the gallant and the beak. If it ever happened near to him again, he would be ready.

Later, when they’d been let go, with little pain to show for it other than a mess, one of the old riggers told Bryn he’d recognized their flag. It was a slave ship, and it had the run of the northern islands. "Seen them round people up outside Afsaana and herd ‘em onboard in chains. Elves,” the rigger said, his voice hard. "Ain’t you lucky they didn’t want you.“ 

Bryn supposed he was lucky. For some, cargo was cargo, and nothing was sacred. 

_Ruthless_ , Varric had called her. 

And when, so many years later, the warning came from his friends at sea, he took it to Cassandra first. She would know what to do, he thought, and who had made it happen. In an instant, she pulled Varric from his writing, nearly by the ear, and sat him down for a talk. 

Now he seemed dismissive of the whole enterprise. "I don’t care _what_ you think you know,” Varric said with a dismissive shrug. "Talk to her yourself if you want. She’s waiting in the courtyard, and she’s not famous for her patience.“ 

Cassandra’s hand wrapped around Bryn’s forearm, turning him from Varric and pulling him close. "Inquisitor,” she said, her voice low and soft, “I will speak to this woman, if you wish.” Her eyes nervously searched his. 

Bryn took in the light flush in her skin, and the warmth of her gloved hand on his arm. He placed his own hand over hers, and hoped the gesture seemed reassuring, and not as eager as he felt. "No. I can. Thank you, Seeker.“ 

They parted, and Bryn left the room to find the woman who should not be there. 

Isabela stood in the shade of the courtyard, one leg propped against the tree behind her, casual and confident. But her arms were crossed tightly at her chest, and her eyes flitted nervously over her surroundings. She seemed ill at ease in the quiet calm of the Chantry garden. 

He could see that she looked much the same as she had all those years ago, if only a little more weather-worn. She must have been hardly more than a child when he saw her then. He supposed that meant he should feel more sympathy for her, and have more hope that she had seen the error of her ways. But he did not. There were some lines that could not be crossed, not without grave injury to one’s soul. 

As he approached, she stepped away from the tree. "So you’re the general of this outfit.” She looked him over and nodded appreciatively. "I’m sure Varric has told you all about me.“

"He didn’t have to,” Bryn replied.

She smiled, and her gold piercings shimmered in the tree-filtered light. "My legend continues to spread, I see.“

He did not return her smile. "I’m sure you don’t remember me,” he said, “but I remember you.”

“Apologies, but I’m well-traveled,” she said. "If I’ve stolen something from you, or _someone_ , well…“ She smirked and shrugged, a pantomime of guilt. 

"You raided my ship.” 

“Ah. Well, that is how piracy tends to go. It’s built right in.” Her eyes narrowed, and if he believed any kindness could come from her, she looked almost concerned. "I didn’t hurt you, did I?“

"I don’t care about that,” he said flatly. "But I don’t want you here.“ 

Isabela looked past him, scanning the passage that led back into the stronghold. "Varric asked for my help. Let me speak with him.” 

He stood firm, and stared directly at her, unwavering. If she didn’t want to meet his eyes, if she wanted to brush past him on her way to whatever her next aims were… it was telling. 

“Varric doesn’t make the decisions,” he said. "I don’t trust pirates. And I don’t want a slaver assisting the Inquisition.“ 

Her face fell, for just a moment, and then she raised her chin, defiant. "That’s what you think, is it?” 

“I’ve sailed as far as anyone can in Thedas. I’ve heard a lot of things.”

“Can’t believe everything you hear.” She put on a false smile. "Surely you know that.“ 

"Is it untrue?” 

The smile faded. "I don’t have to explain anything to you.“ 

"Usually that kind of line means a person feels guilty,” he said. That was something he knew from experience. 

“That so?” She stood taller, and adjusted the sash at her waist. "If you’ve already decided my part of this conversation, why don’t you let me go be useful to you instead of talking?“ She pushed off the tree and began to walk toward the passageway, away from him.

"No,” he said. 

She turned to face him, one eyebrow raised. 

“You will not be useful to us.” Whether he liked it or didn’t, the authority in the Inquisition was his. The decisions were his. And he had decided. 

Isabela studied him for a moment. With a calm stride and a confident look in her eyes, she walked back toward Bryn, and looked up at him, green stones glittering at her throat. "You really don’t know as much as you think,“ she said. Her voice was light, almost amused, though he suspected she would rather use one of those daggers at her waist on him than continue speaking. "I trust Varric. And he trusts you. So…” 

She looked around the garden. He followed her gaze, as it settled upon a soggy patch of grass, dotted with low, dirty wildflowers spattered with mud. 

“I had a husband once. A merchant. Disgusting man, but successful. If you worked a trade vessel,” she said, giving him a slight smirk, “you likely sent some goods his way. Though he’s been dead a nice, long while. 

"He traded people, as well,” she said. "Made a lot of money at it, that kind of… merchandise.“ Her voice grew lighter the more bitter her expression became. "He always got a good deal. He bought me, too. For a pittance.” She looked right into Bryn’s eyes, and her own were cold and flat.

“I took his ship, after his untimely demise. I got into the slave-freeing business, myself. On the side, of course,” she said with a smile that was anything but happy. "Got me into a lot of debt, and a lot more trouble. Which is why I find myself still working after all these years. 

“If I’d only been a slaver,” she said mockingly. "I’d be set for life.

Bryn kept quiet. When he didn’t respond quickly enough for her liking, she sighed and rolled her eyes.

“I’m here to work for you. There’s no one better at sniffing out what you need, and getting away with it. So take my help, or don’t.” Isabela stared at him, her eyes steady and keen as a hawk’s. 

Bryn took things at face value. There was the position of the sun, the direction of the wind, the tell-tale creak of a crooked mast—all verifiable with his own eyes and ears. He did not believe everything he was told, though he couldn’t blame Isabela for thinking otherwise. 

What he saw before him, what he heard, was the truth. Truth is not always easy to suss out, but when your own bias wants to tell you otherwise, your eyes and ears have the right of it. 

To listen, and to look, were the only real things he ever learned at sea. 

“I’ll take it,” he said. 

“Good.” She gave him a quick, cold smile of triumph and turned to walk away. 

The guilt of his judgment bit at him sharply as he watched her head toward the castle. "Forgive me,“ he called, "I don't—”

“Oh, let’s not,” Isabela said. She looked back at him over her shoulder. "No one likes apologies, do they? So uncomfortable.“ 

Bryn swallowed whatever he might have said. "I suppose not.” 

“But let me make one thing clear,” she said. With one eyebrow cocked, she looked him over once more. "Wherever you’ve sailed, I’ve sailed farther.“ 

Then she continued calmly through the garden, and disappeared around a dark, stone wall. 

Bryn knew the truth when he heard it. He would not doubt Isabela again.


	8. Ambition

One of the ways she looked at him was curiously. 

Bryn had seen only the briefest flashes of interest from Cassandra Pentaghast in the earliest days of their time together. She was grieving then, he soon learned, and she had hardened and hid her true self away. Cassandra’s façade was not deep, but it was consistent. Every day she wore the responsibility of her role like another set of armor. 

But Bryn was an unknown to her, and for reasons he hoped for and others simply guessed, she was curious about him. Wary, at first, then curious. Her brow would quirk just at the inner corner, and her head would tilt slightly to the left. If he was trying to amuse her, and sometimes when he did not try, her right cheek would lift, an almost imperceptible smile. 

One of the ways she looked at him was softly. 

When he spoke to the advisors at the War Table, when she still joined them for those talks, he felt her eyes on him while he asked questions he should have known the answers to, if he’d paid any attention to the world on land for the last thirty-odd years. 

When he returned her gaze, she answered with a soft smile and a blink of her eyes. She reminded him of a ship’s mouser, who blinked at you to show her approval, and only nuzzled you affectionately if no one else was around to see it. 

The others were patient, but Cassandra was gracious. She would stand beside him, show him the map, point out the conflicts. She would give him lists of names and relations and factions—everything he needed to fathom the depths of Thedas’ political currents. She would give him an encouraging smile, and her eyes and nose wrinkled adorably. It _was_ adorable to him, he knew that even then. 

One of the ways she looked at him was… a way he could not define. 

There were times Bryn felt that strange, prickly, magnetic feeling that someone was staring at him, from across the crowded great hall or a dusty campsite. Just as magnetically, he would find the person with his eyes in an instant. 

And it was her. Her eyes wide and clear, that hint of a smile at her lips, she looked at him as though she had never actually seen him before. With a curiosity that was stronger than it had been before. With a softness that clutched desperately at something inside him. She looked hopeful, but tentative. 

Then she would turn away, to look at the glittering mosaic on the wall, or a map spread upon a makeshift table, but the expression on her face did not change. He would feel a heat rising along his skin and an itch in his feet, in his soul, to walk to where she was, to look into her eyes again, but closer, so close he might hear her breath hitch or catch her warm scent, if he leaned in. 

He never did. 

For one reason, he was not sure that was what Cassandra wanted. Perhaps her curiosity truly was idle, and her softness only conviviality. Perhaps her interest was less… secular than his own. Perhaps she saw him less as a man, and more as a Herald, as a hope for her faith. 

The other reason was that he felt like an absolute fool around her. Foolish in his manner and his speech. Foolish now to catalogue her every look and twitch and turn of her head as though it meant anything. A fool to imagine she wanted anything more from him than hard work and the right decisions. 

She had tied all her hopes to him, the Inquisitor. For him to want her to fall in love with him, over battlefields and bloodshed, was the most foolish notion of all. 

Cassandra must have realized what his feelings for her truly were, and grew nervous. She _must_ have found it out, because after so many times he caught her look and did nothing for fear of his own foolishness, there was a change in her demeanor toward him. 

At camp, or in meetings, she was stiff where she had been easy, quiet and withdrawn when she had been open and warm. Sometimes she would not meet his eyes at all. 

It was, he thought sorely, even more distracting than before. More than longing for her to look at him again, he wanted much more for her to be herself again. For her to not be compromised or unnerved by his affection, which he had been so dreadfully bad at hiding. He would improve that, in the future. He would focus on the task at hand. 

And he would let her know that she had nothing to worry about. 

He found her at camp one warm evening in the Dales, leaning upon one of those makeshift tables, hunched over a loose pile of scrolls. When he approached, she did not raise her eyes, but he saw her shift nervously where she stood. 

“I…” he began, and cursed how squeaky and youthful his voice sounded. "I was hoping we could speak privately,“ he said, gesturing to a tent behind her. Its open flap showed that it was empty, and quiet. 

Eyes still upon the scrolls, she nodded, and swiftly entered the tent. He followed her in, and pulled the flap close.

Cassandra stood near one of the tentpoles, holding her hands together tightly. Somehow at once she looked nowhere near him and followed his every move.

There was no way to say this but to say it. "I feel—” He sighed. "I feel responsible. For making you uncomfortable.“ 

Her eyes stayed on the ground, and she fiddled with the loose lace of her leather glove. "I don’t know what you mean by that,” she said, a false note of ignorance in her voice.

To drag this out with formality and pretense just might kill him. He felt as though he had run up the mast and down again, the way his heart raced and his palms sweat. "Cassandra, please.“ He took one stride with his long legs to stand inches from her. "Let me be blunt with you,” he said hoarsely. "It’s the only way I know how to be.“

She met his eyes then, and they were soft and curious and the other thing he had no name for. It was the look he had missed. It hurt, nearly, to be the target of such a gaze. To be so vulnerable and exposed to her, so that she could see everything that was in his heart. 

He wished he had never begun this. But he had. So he steeled himself to tell her what he thought she needed to hear.

"I understand you don’t share my feelings regarding… you and I,” he said. 

She said nothing, did nothing, but her nose twitched three times. So he cleared his tight throat and continued.

“We are adults. Decidedly so, in my case. I will not let how I feel complicate this any further.” He took her silence and stillness as assent and went on. "I promise you I expect nothing from you,“ he stressed, "or would even ask it. Please, I would prefer to be friends again if… if nothing else.” 

Her silence continued, but her expression became dark. Her beautiful, soft eyes narrowed and grew hard. "You—" 

She stared at him as though he were a rat who had got into her bedroll. "You expect _nothing_ from me? Was this—" She gestured around her, confused. "Was this talk for _my_ benefit?“

His sweaty palms went cold, and his rapid heartbeat seemed, to him, to cease entirely. "Well, I—”

“Do you expect nothing from anyone?” She paced angrily around the tentpole, shooting him with a look that was fiery, and dangerous. It was all the passion he had imagined he might want—and he had been right to be wary of it. "Are you so rootless and— and _sea-addled_ that you want for nothing in this life?“ 

Her hands were tight claws. She paused and fixed her eyes upon him. "Is your only desire to wash ashore somewhere, and spend your days shaking down coconuts? _Alone?_ ” 

He made a feeble attempt to speak. "Cassandra—"

“Don’t.” She held both hands in front of her, to block him, now, from her sight. "If we do not want the same thing, there is no point in continuing this. As you said.“ 

Bryn liked to think of himself as a perceptive man. An observant, keen-eyed sailor who saw a problem before it was one. A man who _knew_ , and did not need to be told. 

He learned, at his age, far too late, that he had a fatal blind spot when it came to love. 

He had no idea of what was in front of his face, when it came to her. He needed to be told. 

"What do you want?” he whispered. 

Her dark expression become discomfited, and her face flushed a striking, sensuous red. "I—I want… poetry. Flowers. Love,“ she said harshly, as though it angered her to admit to wanting. "My heart yearns for these things. For someone who wants _me_. Desperately. The way I want him.” 

Tears pooled in her eyes. She swallowed hard and turned away, throwing open the tent flap and stomping out into the sunset. 

Bryn could hardly breathe. He had only thought he was a fool before. Now he knew it. 


	9. Innovate

“The purpose of etiquette is to create a standard. Everyone knows the same rules. It’s quite egalitarian.” Josephine looked up at Bryn and smiled brilliantly. 

He had more than a head’s height on her, and more years than he cared to count. Josephine, on the other hand, bested him in nearly every other quality worth having. He was fairly certain she would rout him in a fight, if she spent a moment to learn how.

“There may be little reason for you to attempt to _master_ the Game,” she said, “but a general knowledge of the ways of the court, and the quirks of the nobility, could be life-saving.” 

“If it’s that essential,” he said with a disparaging smile, “how am I still alive after all this time?” 

Bryn was in no mood for pointless lessons. Regardless of what the Orlesians considered the proper fold in one’s cravat or the most elegant way to eat buttered snails, he had no desire to change himself to suit Halamshiral. There was a well-worn saying about old dogs and their ways, and lately he felt like a very old dog indeed. 

That Cassandra had avoided him entirely since their confrontation in the tent was not of consequence. It was not on his mind. Not today, or any other.

“Oh, Inquisitor, I am certain a man of your wit will have no troubles at all.” She swept around to the back of her desk, her taffeta overskirts rustling. With one finger on her lower lip, she perused the stacks of books and parchment pamphlets, humming softly. She piled them into her arms and hurried around the desk again, to where Bryn had sat down upon the stone hearth, tired by all the requests upon his time and mind, and tired by his own thoughts. 

“If you care to do any reading, these may be helpful.” She held out the stack to him with an eager smile, but he only stared at her, weary and unsatisfied. 

Her smile strengthened, and the stack inched closer to him. Formidable, she was, and disarming. He was more suited to force to get his way, or the occasional underhanded, though mild, maneuver. 

Josephine had different ways of acquiring what she wanted, and he had seen first hand how often she was successful. Mostly what she wanted was a _yes_ to a question, or a request. And she was skilled at understanding what her requestee wanted to hear. 

As she stood there smiling down at him, it occurred to him that all the skills and qualities he lacked in certain personal areas could be learned. Just as she said. 

“Josephine, may I ask you something?”

“If you take these books and promise to read them, certainly,” she said, her smile growing wry. 

He took the stack and set it beside him. He left any promise to actually read them unstated. "Is the… etiquette you insist upon,“ he began, folding his hands on his lap, "is it what you might call ‘courtly?’”

She pursed her lips and blinked. "It is used at courts throughout Thedas, but—" Her eyes narrowed, gently. "Perhaps you refer to a more… romantic definition?“ 

"Perhaps,” he said. 

She nodded and made a poor attempt to hide her smile, and moved toward a low bookshelf, filled with rows of neat red volumes in perfect order. Her finger drifted along the spines until she stopped in the center of a row, and carefully pulled the book from its place. 

When she brought it to Bryn, he turned it over in his hands, admiring the rich red leather and bright gilding of its pages. 

“This is a romance, one of the most famous in Antivan literature,” she said. Her eyes shining, it was clear this was a sentimental favorite. "It is full of tales from a bygone age. Poems and songs I sang when I was a bard. I think it qualifies as 'courtly,’ as you put it.“ 

All he could do was nod sheepishly, hoping she would not pry into what was in his mind. If she did not already know.

"There is much to be learned from it,” she went on. "How lords and ladies wooed and won their loves, with poetry and noble deeds. If not life-saving,“ she said with a knowing smile, "it could still be quite valuable to you.” 

Of course, she did know. Despite appearances, it was a small Inquisition, and as gossip-hungry as any Orlesian dinner party. 

“Thank you,” he said, placing the red book on top of the stack. "I am sure it will be very useful.“ 

She nodded, and gave him a look of gentle reproach. "We _all_ hope so, Inquisitor.” 


	10. Sonnet

The book Josephine gave to Bryn, the tales of romance and poems of love, _was_ illuminating, as she promised. Within its pages, he learned twenty-seven pet names for a lover (only twelve of them vulgar), six ways to hide a forbidden romance from disapproving parents, and fourteen new, if unwieldy, positions for lovemaking. 

The worst thing he learned from it, and the most important, was that he was utterly unsuited for courtly, noble romancing. 

How could he ever manage to become what Cassandra wanted? Despite where he now found himself, and despite the life to which he’d been born, he was, simply, a sailor. 

He considered this one evening while he stole into the pantry after the kitchens had closed, and availed himself of the smoked ham and seedy, sour mustard. The ham was sweet and the mustard sharp, and he busied his hands and mouth while his mind turned everything over.

Bryn had been molded, had molded himself, into what he was today. Was he ever the saltiest dog at port, wine-soaked and craggy as a cliffside? Of course not. But he was an able seaman, a keen eye, a blasted good swordsman when necessary, and he was unafraid of hard, dirty, dangerous labor. That was his life. 

It _had been_ his life. He left that life to see home again, while he was hale and flush enough to make the voyage. While some of his family still lived, though not enough of them. He had some notion it might be the last time he would see his clan again. He had not meant for the change to be permanent. 

Lavellan’s Keeper now was a beautiful, silvery woman near his own age. The way he remembered it, Keepers were old and grey, intimidating and wise. Now he himself had reached a state of oldness and greyness that others might mistake for wisdom, and he had none of that. But there was a grandeur about her, and a strength. 

When she asked him to do the Clan a favor, to monitor something called the Conclave, he did not hesitate. He was used to travel, and it was nothing for him to go out among the shemlen. _That_ was a word he’d not heard in ages. There was so much he had grown unused to. 

Idly, he had imagined when he returned, he might stay to learn more about this Keeper, before he left again, back to the sea and all _her_ pleasures and pains. 

Life did not work out that way. He had been captured by a woman before whom all others paled. 

Cassandra had given him what he had not even thought to ask for. She told him what she wanted from him. A direct order, as it were. He had always been good at following those. 

The ham had disappeared from the plate before he noticed. He was too deep in thought. If he could not change himself to be more the man she desired, one of these comely and silver-tongued knights from Josephine’s tales, he could find a way to act like one. For a time. 

If only… He set down the empty plate. On the wooden table, there were some scraps of parchment and a nearly dry inkwell. The scraps had been scratched with notations from menus and meals. He found the quill and an empty space upon the page, and pulled up a stool to the table.

If only he could say to her what was truly in his heart. In the way she might prefer.

~~To tell you how your face shines  
Once there was a man who  
I adore you and words aren’t enough to say~~

He threw down the quill and stared at the parchment. It was hopeless. He was no poet. The scribblings were barely legible, and it might have been better if they weren’t at all. He crumpled the parchment into his fist and tossed it onto the glowing embers of the hearth. 

It was less than a week until he found the book. The bookseller in Redcliffe gave him vague directions toward where his missing shipment may be. Bryn had not thought to actually find any intact, yet here one was. _Carmenum di Amatus._ The words were not his own, but there was something in them of how he felt. 

The book was turned over on its own, in a soft, mossy outcropping shaded by pines. There were wildflowers growing there, reaching for the sun’s light. It seemed a fitting spot. 


End file.
